The Paradox of Logic
by kabensi
Summary: Quinn and Rachel are enrolled in Starfleet Academy. That's it. That's the summary. (Current content is just a teaser.)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is just a teaser and I actually won't be digging into this fic for a while. In addition to other projects I need to finish, this one is going to require a ton a research to get the details right. However, I wanted to put this out there as a taste of what's to come. Thank you, as always, for reading. **

* * *

"_Logic is the beginning of all wisdom, not the end._" - Spock

* * *

Quinn wakes, her heart pounding in her chest, a physiological reaction to the dream from which she's just left behind. On the other side of her shared quarters, her roommate snores, loudly, as always.

It's just as well, because Quinn won't be going back to sleep, anytime soon.

Remnants of the dream are still present in her mind, despite her best efforts to shake them. It doesn't make sense, the fact that she continues to fixate on the subject matter, because it's pointless. She's here at the academy to study, learn, and graduate, not to entertain fantasies.

It's the third night in a row they've come to haunt her, however. Ever since that day she agreed to read a scene with Rachel in their Arts History class. Most cadets would simply take the material, read it together, and leave it at that.

Rachel Berry is not like most cadets.

Correction, she is like the majority of those enrolled at Starfleet Academy, in the sense that she's fully human, unlike Quinn or Santana, who each only carry half the human set of genetics. Or Brittany, who isn't even human, at all.

It's almost as if Rachel is even more human than most humans. She's dramatic and passionate and constantly driven by her emotions, uncaring as to whether her decisions are even founded in logic (or even honor, which Quinn can also understand).

Because of this, the scene reading was much more tactile than expected, with Rachel constantly touching, tugging, and pushing at her as she recited the words of Shakespeare's Ophelia opposite Quinn's Hamlet. To Quinn's own surprise, she responded and reacted the way she believed presented a proper and equal level of performance to her scene partner and, in turn, the professor granted them both extra credit marks for "truly tapping into the spirit" of the exercise.

So it wasn't completely frivolous. And, she supposes that it was... fun.

But ever since that day, she can't seem to remove thoughts of Rachel from her mind. If she focuses hard enough, it's almost as if she can sense her, across the courtyard, in the opposite block of cadet quarters, probably singing along to some Earth music Quinn has never heard.

Like the one Quinn finds herself humming, right now. She doesn't know it. Perhaps it's just a shadow of a dream, something her brain concocted to fit the atmosphere of the dream. It's soothing, though, at least the parts of it she can fully recall. In the morning, she may run a search to see if it's a work that actually exists or not.

The more Santana snores fill the room, the more immediate the need for the search becomes, so Quinn picks up her PADD from the ledge near her bed and moves her fingers over the screen, entering as many of the lyrics as she can until a clear result is found. She taps the command to play the song, knowing full well that it won't wake Santana and hopes it's enough to drown out the guttural Klingon sounds enough to get a few more hours of sleep.

"Title: Keep Holding On," the computer narrates, "Composer: Avril Lavigne. Earth, two thousand and six." The song begins to play and Quinn rests back against her pillow, eyes already drifting shut.


	2. Chapter 2

"If you're going to brainwash me in my sleep, can you at least pick something a little less terrible?"

"What?" Quinn's just exited the shower, her towel still snug around her body as she combs through her hair, preparing to pull it up in the secure bun that keeps it out of her face. Her father insists it's frivolous extension of her humanity, but her mother thinks "it looks nice" and Quinn's inclined to agree that she enjoys the aesthetic of it.

"That song you had on repeat for an hour."

"I thought you were asleep, given that you were snoring at close to ninety decibels." An exaggeration, but a sufficient anecdote. This is a habit she picked up from her older sister, who seems to be more inclined to fall in line their mother's human side than their father's dual Vulcanoid genetics. The son of parents who were part of the Reunification Movement, Russell Fabray is both Romulan and Vulcan, while Judy Fabray is entirely human.

Quinn is still uncertain about how they met and came to procreate. She isn't sure she wants to ask.

"I was, until you started with the tribute to the nineteenth century."

"Twenty first," Quinn corrects.

"Like it matters," Santana grunts, rifling through the drawers of her wardrobe, likely looking for part of her uniform. "Now the stupid thing is stuck in my head."

"I find it..." Quinn searches for the correct word. "... pleasant."

"That's because you have no taste."

"While it is true that Vulcans have a weaker sense of taste than other races, it would be inaccurate to suggest we have none, at all." It's innate, the need to correct a fallacy.

"Ugh, you sound like Brittany. Except when she does it, it's at least moderately endearing."

By now, Quinn's hair is tightly wound and her uniform is on, spotless and wrinkle-free. "Do you want me to wait?" she asks. She and Santana don't particularly understand each other, all the time, but they've come to be more than civil. Some would classify them as friendly.

Santana shakes her head. "I'll meet you there. Just save me a seat. Oh, and if they have any of that... what is called... it's crunchy, they usually have it with the small, overcooked bird eggs?"

"Bacon?"

"Yes! I want a lot of that."

Quinn nods and briskly walks toward the door to their quarters, pausing only briefly as it automatically opens.

* * *

Because of the Federation Agriculture Project, the students at the academy are presented with the option of two non-replicator based meals a day. Quinn prefers to take advantage of this offer, because the fresh food reminds her of home, of her mother's cooking. After a stop at the omelette station, she's sure to secure a large plate of pork bacon for Santana, then carries her carefully balanced tray toward an open table.

There's a slight tingle in the back of her brain, which she knows is physically impossible, but it's there, and then there's Rachel, on her left side.

"Good morning, Quinn." Rachel's hair is pulled back into what the Earth humans refer to as a "ponytail" because of it's resemblance to that of the tail of a horse or pony. Odd that Quinn's never once heard it referred to as a "horsetail" even though it would be equally as representative.

"Good morning," Quinn replies. They're both on the same trajectory toward the open table, so Quinn is aware of what Rachel is about to ask. "Would you like to-"

"May I sit with-"

They've spoken at the same time and Quinn's skin feels flushed, as if with fever. But she knows she isn't ill. Her mouth pulls up at one corner, an involuntary human reaction to the moment.

As they sit, Rachel takes a long look at the plate of bacon on Quinn's tray. For some reason, Quinn feels the need to explain that it isn't hers.

"Santana requested it," she quickly says, lifting the plate and setting it off to the side. "I'm actually partial to a vegetarian based diet." It seems to be a reasonable topic of discussion, given that Rachel's breakfast is made up of fruit and cereal.

It's enough to make Rachel smile, anyway. There's another flush to Quinn's skin.

Rachel takes a delicate bite of melon and nods, "I've heard that about Vulcans."

"I'm actually only one-quarter Vulcan. My father is also half Romulan."

"And your mother?"

"Human. Like you."

"I never told you that, though." Rachel tilts her head in a manner that appears playful. "How are you so sure?"

"You're ruled by emotion."

Rachel's mouth twists in disapproval. "I'm not ruled by it."

Perhaps a compliment is in order. "Also, while your stature is what most would consider... short..." Rachel's arms cross and Quinn knows she only has seconds to articulate the remainder of her thought. "You're far too aesthetically pleasing to be of Ferengi descent."

Quinn can't tell if Rachel is satisfied with what she's offered, because Santana drops into the seat across from them and begins to shove a handful of bacon into her mouth. At the glare she's getting from the other side of the table, Santana looks up at Rachel, with a mouthful of and mutters, "nuqneH?"

"You do realize that you're perpetuating the Klingon stereotype, right now, right?" Rachel asks.

Santana rolls her eyes and there's a moment where Quinn is concerned that she's about to initiate a confrontation, but Rachel is saved, for now, by the arrival of Brittany. She places her tray on the table and sits in the seat next to Santana, who immediately calms and sits up a little in her chair.

"Hey," Santana says, stealing Quinn's napkin so she can wipe at her face.

"Hello," Brittany cheerfully replies. Or, at least, as cheerful as an android can be.

All Quinn really knows about Brittany is that her data processors were damaged at some point and her being enrolled in Starfleet Academy is something of an experimental project.

Rachel's eyes are on the diverse spread of food on Brittany's tray. "What is all that?"

"Deep fried gladst, matzoh ball soup, Tarvorkian powder cake, cheddar fondue, and something called 'Twizzlers.' And I recall you saying you can't get through your morning classes without a cup of raktajino." Brittany places a steaming cup on front of Santana.

"You remember that?" Santana asks, accepting the Klingon beverage.

There's a singular nod from Brittany. "While my data processors may not function within standard parameters, my memory cells are fully operational."

Quinn focuses on eating her breakfast, trying to avoid the urge to gaze over at Rachel. It would be considered rude. Also, Santana certainly wouldn't allow it to go unnoticed. Although, it appears that her roommate is distracted by the android sitting next to her.

"Well, if it isn't the finest representation of female species in the Alpha Quadrant." There's suddenly someone wedged between herself and Rachel and, even though it's an intrusion, Quinn welcomes the interruption.

Quinn addresses him, dryly, as "Puckerman."

Brittany dips one of the red licorice sticks into the fondue. "I am technically not classified as a species."

"I'm technically about to punch you in the face," Santana grumbles, glaring at him over her raktajino.

"Woah, dial down the phasers, it's a compliment." Puck, as he prefers to be called, reaches across the table and grabs one of the Twizzlers.

"Noah," Rachel says. Because, despite his preference, she calls him by his given forename, and seems to be the only one who does so. "Our human ancestors would be thrilled to know that their efforts in equality have carried on."

"Perhaps you should consider finding your own breakfast," Quinn suggests, indicating to Puck that Santana's eyes are still locked in on him, as if she's evaluating a target.

"Aw, she's harmless," Puck replies, though he jumps slightly when Santana slams her cup onto the table.

"I am certainly not harmless! My ancestors are from Krios Prime." Santana has one knee up on the table as she leans closer toward Puck. "I have bat'leths in my hair and I will use them, if necessary."

Quinn stands, reaching out toward Santana, urging her to sit back down. Noah Puckerman is known for talking his way into fights, but she also know that he's relatively harmless. There's no need for any hand-to-hand combat before breakfast. Especially given that the Academy would find it highly unfavorable.

Puck straightens his uniform. "I think I'll go get myself some raktajino."

As he strolls away from the table, a silence hangs between the four cadets. Finally, Rachel says, "Raktajino makes me hyper. Last year, during final exams, I had two cups and didn't sleep for three days."

"That sounds unfavorable," is Quinn's reply.

"I don't really remember the last day, but I wrote a one act musical. I just… don't know what the music is supposed to sound like."

Santana appears to be in better spirits, because she scoffs as she finished the last of her bacon. "Not much of a musical then, is it?"

"You could try hypnosis." Brittany suggests. "My data files indicate that it can draw memories out of the subconscious."

Rachel nods, but she's distracted by the fact that Brittany is mixing the fried gladst with the powder cake and her disgust is displayed quite clearly on her face.

"I'd like read it," Quinn says, "if you wouldn't mind sharing it. Perhaps it would help you remember if you have someone else familiar with the material."

It's enough to draw Rachel's attention away from the culinary atrocity that's happening across the table and she smiles at Quinn. "I'd like that. This afternoon? I have Policy and Procedure until fourteen hundred."

"I would be able to meet you in the east courtyard by fourteen-fifteen," Quinn replies. Her heart has increased its pace, even though she's sitting and not exerting herself. "Next to the snack bar."

"Perfect." Rachel reaches over and squeezes Quinn's hand before she collects her tray and rises from the table. "See you then."

"Hu'tegh," is Santana's reply to the whole thing. She unceremoniously grabs her now empty bacon plate off the table and drops it onto Quinn's tray. "Take that for me."

Quinn just nods, not feeling particularly driven to argue that it's Santana's responsibility to bus her own dishes. It's almost as if her mind is cloudy, except it isn't. It's completely and entirely focused on one thing.

Rachel Berry.


End file.
